Terminator: Night Watch
by Wolfblade670
Summary: Mike Miller is a child of the apocalypse, shaped by a life spent hiding in the ruins of mankind's once great civilisation. A lifetime of fear fed on a diet of rats and scouring hot plasma. A patrol leader in Connor's loose knit Resistance, it is his responsibility to feed intel back to HQ, and keep his men alive. But more then HKs stalk the rubble of dead San Francisco...


Sector 17, 21:07 hours, San Francisco, California – 4 October, 2019 AD

Just a little over two hours after sundown. Not that you saw the sun much; twelve years since Judgement Day and the clouds still hung thick. The Earth itself still choking on Humanity's ashes. In this darkness lurked a wiry figure, clad in olive and grey. Corporal Ryan Miller rolled back the sleeve of his tattered field jacket to check his wrist chrono: 21:07. The chill made his hair stand on end; it was growing cold again. Miller could see his breath in the October night air, which was going to make his job harder. Infrared signatures became even more obvious in the autumn chill.

The Corporal glanced to his six as he crouched in the rubble of what was once a gas station. The ever present dust of pummeled concrete hung in the air, dancing amidst the dim, overcast gloom of post-nuclear skies. Eckhart and Jiminez lay prone at his four and eight, all their senses panning the night for any sign of the enemy. Their mission was a standard reconnaissance patrol, strictly 'look around, write it down'. Nine hours of slinking through the dark, dragging their bellies over shattered concrete and rebar praying they weren't spotted. Their assigned sector was supposed to be a quiet one; scattered reconnaissance drones with the occasional HK flyover. According to Battalion S2 SKYNET maintained a minimal operational presence in this area because of its lack of high value salvage or viable targets. It fell to Corporal Miller's patrol to confirm that situation had remained unchanged.

Miller brought his rifle to low ready and signaled Eckhart to take point. Eckhart carried the only other plasma weapon in the patrol, an M25 much like Miller's.

'If we make contact we'll need that plas up front' affirmed Miller silently to himself, 'for all the good it'll do us at only four mags each'.

Scarcity of resources combined with their mission of observation meant the team was packing little in the way of firepower. This austerity was punctuated by Jimenez, bringing up the rear with a beat-to-hell Ithaca riot gun, likely pulled from an old police cruiser. Slugs wouldn't do much against the newer units, but it was better then rocks.

'Tight bastards couldn't even spare us a set of MagGogs' the Corporal continued to swear to himself 'Helluva recon with only one Flexy'.

Miller's rifle mounted the only computer sight in the team. Yet another factor conspiring to make his work harder, and the night had only just begun.

The Corporal reached to his right, tapping the boot of his Lance Corporal, Eckhart. With a keen eye and several years more experience, the man was always a first choice for walking point. Eckhart's sinewy, grey clad form slithered down the pile of debris they had been nesting in towards a gap in the building's wall. Upon reaching it, his head peaked out the jagged opening, carefully staying as low as possible to avoid silhouetting himself. Miller waited, his eyes glued to Eckhart's back as the point man remained motionless. Seconds ticked by. Then the tension in the air eased as Eckhart gave a thumbs up.

'All clear. Just across this street and then we'll have plenty of concealment for the next couple blocks' Miller mused to himself.

Eckhart slowly glanced back at his patrol and brought his left hand to his opposite shoulder, the signal for preparing to cross a danger area. Miller repeated the signal back to Jiminez, and all eyes returned to Eckhart. With a litheness natural to his environment, the point man sprung from his hiding place across the deadly naked expanse of the ancient back street, disappearing into the darkness of the building beyond. The Corporal and his charge waited silently, quietly praying they would not be greeted by Eckhart's screams from the foreboding blackness. Some small relief returned as the point man edged as close as he dared to the gash in the far building, signaling the all clear. It was Miller's turn to cross.

'Here we go...'

Miller sprung to his feet and bounded across the asphalt with all he could muster. The icy wind tore the breath from his lungs. For a fraction of a second he could see the expanse of the street from the corner of his eye. The long, black river pockmarked by craters and piles of debris. Battered buildings lined its flanks, their shattered upper stories piercing the sky like skeletal fingers. Even so cluttered its openness filled him with dread. Eckhart's assurances melted under a blanket of primal fear. The Machines would see him. Any second now, a bolt of white hot plasma would jump from one of those innumerable hides, and erase him from memory. Then as quick as he had emerged, the Corporal was once again enveloped in the concealing darkness of the ruins. Safe, once again, if only briefly. Like many of his generation Miller was a chronic agoraphobic; such was the wages of a youth spent scampering between wrecked cars and piles of slag, scrambling for anything to put between you and the sky. To a child of SKYNET's brave new world, the open sky and open spaces meant only death.

Miller dropped to one knee, his heart still pounding in his hears. His eyes and muzzle trained on the darkness within their new brief refuge. Jiminez's boots hammered the asphalt behind, and the Private slid to a halt a little louder then any of them would've liked. There was a collective wince, but there was no helping it. Even at sixteen small mistakes happened.

'Still...' the Corporal thought '...its the small mistakes that get you vaped.'.

Eckhart returned to point, and the patrol resumed its movement. In near silence they crept through the remnants of the shattered California strip mall, a silent monument to the world of bountiful decadence that had once belonged to their fathers. Little now remained of that mythical existence, replaced by the crushed glass and charred bones the young men dared not trod upon. Sound carried in the windswept concrete arroyos of dead San Francisco.

Their passage was eased by the mouseholes cut through the walls of each adjacent retail space, just large enough for a man to crawl through. Someone had been here before. Eckhart raised his hand and the patrol came to a halt. In the ebon chill they crouched motionless, ears, eyes, and noses trained on the wind, seeking the slightest sign of activity. Several minutes passed as men became as statues, hardly daring to breathe. Stop. Look. Listen. A drill repeated countless times from their first steps in a world of perpetual fear.

A cold breeze rolled something against their boots. Eckhart reached down, lifting a small metallic object between his fingers. A shell casing, 5.56x45mm. A cursory glance revealed the floor was covered in them, mixed with the occasional spent shell from a shotgun or high caliber rifle. His eyes panned around the room, blackened by atomic firestorm. Miller glanced back at twelve o clock to meet Eckhart's ice blue gaze, his gaunt features lined with a mix of curiosity and concern. The point man crept close to his patrol leader and spoke in a hushed whisper.

'There was one helluva firefight here. Light automatic weapons fire, probably M16s or M4s. A few civilian small arms. No plasma damage. Judging by the lack of corrosion, whatever happened here, it was fairly recent.'

'How long ago?' asked Miller.

Eckhart exhaled 'Maybe four or five weeks. The casings are just starting to turn green.'

'What did this?' Jiminez interjected 'Clankers don't use slugthrowers'.

'Not anymore they don't' replied Eckhart.

Miller attempted to reassert control of the conversation 'Probably scavengers. Pair of bands bumped into each other and had a disagreement over that last can of SPAM.'.

Eckhart raised an eyebrow at this patrol leader 'Ryan, if this were scavs...then where's the bodies?'

Miller cast a frantic glance around the charred storefront and cursed himself for his stupidity.

Eckhart continued 'There's nothing here fresh enough to match up with the age of these casings. All these bones? Been here for years. Probably fried when the nukes hit. Whoever won this fight dragged off the bodies, and scavvies just strip 'em and leave 'em.'.

All three men traded anxious glances in the darkness, as their minds reached identical conclusions.

'Eaters...' whispered Jiminez, '...cannibals.'.

'That's my guess.' replied Eckhart. 'We'll need to really watch our asses...' Eckhart turned to Miller 'Chipheads ain't the only thing hunting out here.'.


End file.
